The First Time
by bethos
Summary: Malcolm and Hoshi make love for the first time. He worries. She is smug. Then, they are happy. The end!


Disclaimer: This show and these characters do not belong to me; I merely borrow them and make them do sex.

A/N: Thanks to Teza for glancing this over on LJ. Apologies about the title. I teh suck at titling stuff.

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The First Time

He revels in the taste of her, the faint tang of champagne and strawberries lingering on her lips and tongue. The hot flush of her skin as she slides her nude body against his is like a poem in touch and sight. All his senses are singing and he knows that it can't just be the alcohol because he's barely had enough to moisten his lips. It's not the champagne that renders the kisses intoxicating.  
  
He has imagined this countless times, in more ways than one might think humanly possible; but never quite like this. He saw her in her isolation as a goddess on a pedestal, to be worshipped with his body; never as an eager, playful lover, nibbling in unexpected places, nudging him, urging him, teasing him. He painted in his mind a picture of making love to her that involved, somehow, an elegance, a quietness and serenity, a sonnet of motion, an orchestra of touch: he never imagined that it could be like this. That it could be ... well ... fun.  
  
At first he only goes along with it because he's following her lead, amazed that luck has taken him this far, astonished that the goddess is favoring him with so much more than a smile; but she teases and licks and nibbles and flirts with him, drawing the encounter out, drawing him out, making him play with her.  
  
He's not sure how the pillow-fighting bit started.  
  
But they end up chasing each other around his quarters, laughing and calling each other names that he has never heretofor used during a lovemaking session.  
  
And she is startlingly, refreshingly direct, even with all the - there is no other phrase to describe it - fooling around. When she is ready to move on, ready to end the game, she sidles up to him, a come-hither look in her dark eyes, and brushes her hair back with one hand as she slides the other down his hip, across his thigh, to his cock.  
  
She mumbles something complimentary, relaxing in post-coital smugness against the pillow that at some point got thrown haphazardly back onto the bed. He strokes her soft, glorious hair until her eyes close in sleep, and lays there in heavenly silence before the demons of worry sneak their way back into his mind.  
  
He has no idea what tonight means to her.  
  
For him, it was the culmination of four years of watching, of distance, of self-loathing and worry: for her, what? He'd managed, stumblingly, to invite her here tonight; the words to let her know how much it meant to him simply had not come. He hadn't wanted to put unnecessary pressure on her. He still doesn't.  
  
What does this mean to her?  
  
What does he mean to her?  
  
Just an evening, just a single evening, like so many women have meant to him in the past?  
  
The playing, the flirting, the teasing - he's never had anyone quite like that, not really. She seemed so earnest and so eager, and yet ...  
  
Could it mean anything to her? Anything like what it had meant to him?  
  
Would she expect things to be business as usual tomorrow?  
  
Could she really have given this to him?  
  
Could she really ever love him?  
  
Somewhere in the midst of these troublesome, worrying thoughts, sleep takes him.  
  
He awakens to the scent of her hair. She's curled up against him; he has held her in his sleep.  
  
"Good morning, Lieutenant," she says. Smug amusement ripples in her voice.  
  
"Good morning," he answers. "Did you sleep well?"  
  
"I did," she said, propping her head on her fist and regarding him, the smugness lingering in her gaze. "You're comfy."  
  
He feels words trembling in the back of his mind: I love you. I want to be like this with you forever. But he knows not to say it. He holds it back. Instead, he says lightly, not without some smugness of his own, "I aim to please."  
  
"You're successful," she says.  
  
He wonders how to ask the question: is this all? Are we done?  
  
She's watching him, her expression gone curious and a little worried. "You all right?" she asks.  
  
"Just thinking." A quick breakfast in the mess-hall and then back on duty as if nothing's ever happened, and we go our separate ways?  
  
She smiles and rolls over, resting folded arms on his chest. She rests her chin on her pillowed arms and looks up at him. He is suddenly very aware of the warm pressure of her breasts against his side, of the silken tickle of her black hair grazing his stomach. An impish smile turns up the corners of her mouth. "What are you doing tonight, Malcolm?" she inquires. "When you get off-duty?"  
  
There's something giddy in the grin he can't suppress. "Whatever you'd like," he replies, awash in relief.  
  
Hoshi grins, a blush pinking her cheeks, and says, "I think something can be arranged."


End file.
